


something gave you the nerve (to touch my hand)

by sunset_waltz



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Getting Together, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Canon, Post-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21809764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunset_waltz/pseuds/sunset_waltz
Summary: Tom Brason is settling into his relationship with Lucy when he sees a dead man walking.
Relationships: Lucy Smith/Tom Branson/Major Chetwode, Tom Branson/Lucy Smith, Tom Branson/Major Chetwode
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	something gave you the nerve (to touch my hand)

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in over a year, and the first thing I write is over 12k for a crack ship that I don't think anyone has thought of other than me, but I regret nothing.
> 
> Title from "It's Nice to Have a Friend" by Taylor Swift.

“Have another?”

“Yes,” it’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. If Tom’s being honest with himself, he knows he probably shouldn’t stay here, that he probably doesn’t even need to. It’s clear to him now that Major Chetwode isn’t there to keep an eye on him, which means that he could leave at any time with no concerns for if it would make him look suspect. Staying probably makes him more of a suspect than leaving would’ve. But if Tom’s being really honest with himself — and though he’s nowhere near drunk, he’s drunk enough to let his thoughts run freely — it was more than a sense of duty to the Crawleys that had made him keep on meeting with Chetwode.

It’s- There. It’s the way Chetwode just looked at him, eyes wide and blue as he passed him a new pint. It sets a fire in his stomach, it compels him to stay even when he knows he shouldn’t. It feels like doing something wrong again, and God, he had missed that feeling.

And Chetwode is talking, just talking again about the logistics of the parade, chit-chat that Tom has just enough presence of mind to keep giving some general answers to. He feels like Chetwode isn’t much into the conversation either, because the point of his shoe is tracing Tom’s ankle, ever so slowly. Tom knows that it would be easy to pull back, pretend like nothing has happened. Instead, he takes a sip of his drink and lets his eyes meet Chetwode. Thanks heavens that he’s drunk enough that doing something so stupid feels so good.

They finish their drinks in silence, Chetwode’s foot resting against his ankle, and God, how can such a tiny touch set him on fire like that?! When they’re done, Chetwode pays for both of them, and as they leave the pub and go out into the rain, there’s a hand pressed firmly into the middle of Tom’s back. Tom let’s himself be guided, and let’s himself be pushed against the stone wall outside of the pub, and when all that Chetwode does is press his forehead against Tom’s and stay there, he can’t help himself. “Fuck.”

“Yeah?” Chetwode’s smiling, all coy and full of shit, and for God’s sake, it should be unnerving. But his eyes are eagerly tracing Tom’s face, and though Tom knows that he will have to be home at a reasonable hour and that tomorrow he will probably be handing Chetwode to the authorities, Tom lets himself watch back and is not at all surprised when the gap between them eventually comes close.

It feels hotter than Tom thought possible in such a night, and he feels like he’s burning all over, especially in his face, and in his shoulders, and in his chest, and in any other place Chetwode touches while they kiss. It’s not the first time he kissed a man, but he can count in one hand how many he has kissed; more importantly, he can count with three fingers how many people he has kissed since Sybil. Chetwode is only the fourth, and probably the only one he’d been aching for.

_God_ , he is aching for it.

They kiss, half-desperate, half something else that Tom can’t quite put his finger on. When Chetwode pulls back, Tom follows him and closes the gap again. He finally allows his hands to move: from Chetwode’s neck, to his chest, his arms. It feels like falling from a cliff and enjoying it, and heavens, isn’t that intoxicating.

Chetwode is the one who puts a stop to it: he parts the kiss with his hands firmly on Tom’s chest to keep him from going for it again, and when Tom does exactly that, he hides his face in Tom’s neck, bites lightly and kisses the same spot without even giving him time to process that. Tom feels like he could combust.

“I think we should stop here,” Chetwode says, and he sounds breathless enough that Tom doesn’t feel bad for how out of sorts he feels. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It comes as no surprise when Chetwode gets taken by the police, as it is of no surprise how guilty Tom feels when he gets taken away. But Mary is there at his side, smiling brightly to him, and Tom cannot find it in himself to regret doing it, which only makes him feel guiltier.

And then Lucy comes. Tom must still be more tender than usual, because he finds himself falling for her smiles so easily, more easily than it should’ve been after so many years of only passing feelings and small infatuations, of not feeling much for anyone. But he does now, and thinking of Sybil doesn’t hurt anymore, not in the way it used to. When they agree to write to each other it feels _right_.

They write, and Lucy comes visit with Lady Bagshaw every so often. Somewhere along the way, Tom starts to feel like the girls are conspiring to set them up — which comes as no surprise, because he knows his sisters can be two meddling little devils. It must work somewhat, though, and one day he decides to be the one to go meet Lucy at her new place in London. He doesn’t tell anyone other than Henry where he’s going, because he wants to keep some part of it private, instead of feeling like he has to give them everything. He takes one of the cars and drives there, and Lucy meets him at the door of her not-so-small flat. She got it after stopping working as a maid so that she can be close to her mother while she’s serving the Queen.

She smiles so bright when she sees him that Tom finds himself falling even harder.

“There’s not much to do here, really,” she says as she makes them a cup of tea, and Tom tries not to laugh at the thought that there’s not much to do in London. As she puts the kettle on, he leans against the counter to watch her. “But I’m really glad you came.”

“Me too.” They smile at each other, and Tom is the one who closes the gap. It’s meant to be a short, small thing, like they grew used to do at the Abbey when no one’s looking, but they stand there kissing until the water boils. Tom doesn’t remember the last time that being with someone over ten was so easy.

“I didn’t tell my mother that you came, by the way,” she says, as she pours the water into the cups and signals him to go the table. “She’s not terribly worried about the way things should be, but I believe even she would frown at the thought of me spending the night with a man, unsupervised.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. Tom smiles harder. He loves everything about her.

“And she’d be right,” he says, alluding to the nights spent under Downton’s roof where they found themselves slipping into each other’s beds. Nothing more ever happened than a few heated kisses and sleep, but that’s still more than anyone expects to happen.

“She’d probably be,” Lucy concedes with a small laugh. She goes to the gramophone and turns it on, lowering the sound until it is only some background noise. And then she sits in front of him, putting the jar of cookies — “I baked them myself, you better eat them” — in the middle of the small kitchen table for them to share, and God. It feels like he’s enjoying this moment more than he’s enjoyed anything in his life so far.

Afterwards, they go for walk, arms laced as Lucy guides them through the streets. They’re both quiet people, which means the conversation is few and far between. He relishes in it, in the comfort of the silence, thinking about how he’s helplessly falling for her. The fact that Lucy is right there besides him makes it all the more sweet.

They go back home for dinner, and when Tom says, “I couldn’t cook to save my life,” Lucy hands him an apron, laughing at his incredulous face. All he does is chop vegetables and even that is kind of new, something he hasn’t done in years- no, something that he hadn’t needed to do in years, and that’s a thought that makes him despise himself a little bit.

Lucy had put the music back on first thing when they arrived, and she sings quietly under her breath, occasionally stopping to guide him through the motions, or to berate him when he stops to watch her do her thing. She looks beautiful just then. He wants to treasure her forever.

They go to bed together that night, even though there’s a spare room across the hall. When heated kisses become heated touches, when those touches go from the top of the clothes to underneath them, Lucy is the one that breaks away. “Tom…” she says. She sounds so broken; Tom is right there with her. “Even I am not that much of a rebel,” she finishes.

Tom nods, kisses her in the crook of her neck. “If you want to stop then we’ll stop.” He pulls back to look at her. “But if you want to go a little further, we can without… doing that.” He looks at her, sees her pondering the options, and stands back to give her space, smiles at her when she looks at him helplessly.

“I… Alright,” she concedes, and then a little more sure, “alright. But slowly, one step at a time.”

He kisses her in lieu of an answer, slowly rides her shirt up and kisses down her chest, and when he kisses her right above her mount of hairs, asking her if that’s alright, she’s the one who puts a hand on his hair and pushes him down. He goes willingly; the falling has never felt so good.

And so things go on, with Tom going to London every now and then, excusing himself with imaginary car shows and other business related meetings, Henry eagerly nodding in agreement while Mary looks at him in suspicion. All in all, nothing new.

Apart from his visits, Lucy also comes with Maud, more and more often. Somewhere along the line, she and Tom make it clear that there might be something going on with them, but that they don’t want to do anything right now. But Cora starts hinting at wedding plans, and Mary when day _casually_ brings up a sibling for Sybbie, and that’s when Tom has to draw the line, carefully setting the boundary that their relationship is not up for discussion. As always, they don’t get the hint.

(Once, when they happen to speak within Sybbie’s ear shot, he carefully sits her in his bed that night and explains what’s happening to her, that there’s someone he might marry one day. He asks if that would be okay, and has never been so grateful for his wonderful daughter when she nods in excitement the whole conversation. It’s a positive outcome, but Tom is still furious at them.)

Tom does wonder why the next step feels so far away, though. He brings it up with Lucy once or twice, during their quiet nights in London, and she reassures him that she’s not in a rush either. But it’s not that he’s not in a rush. He knows what it is, and sometimes, when he’s alone in his bedroom, just tipsy enough from the night’s drinks, he even lets himself acknowledge what it is: it’s that the kiss with Chetwode still lingers in his mind, even after everything that happened, like a spark in his belly that he just can’t quite let go of.

When he handed Chetwode to the policemen, he knew he would never see him again, that they would take him away somewhere, most likely to be killed quietly and without fuss. That’s why, when he sees a dead man walking through the front of his store, two years after being assumed dead, Tom’s heart does this weird thing where it falls to the floor while leaping like a madman.

“Mr. Branson,” Major Chetwode greets, approaching his desk, tipping his hat in greeting.

Tom is too astounded to speak. The man in front of him looks alive, all flesh and bone and bright blue eyes. Tom’s heart is pounding in his chest. “Major Chetwode.”

Chetwode grins, and unlike last time, now there’s something crooked, something a bit dangerous about it. Tom is suddenly standing right at the edge of that cliff again. “Not anymore, I’m afraid. I go by James Allsopp nowadays.”

There’s a million things Tom wants to ask (some that he wants to ask _for_ ), but he manages to have enough presence of mind to stick to, “What are you doing here?” even though he’s not that interested in the answer. (And yes, he knows that it should probably the most pressing question on his mind, but there’s a not small part of him that wants to hold Chetwode — no, James — against the counter and kiss him senseless in retribution, and he’s more focused on keeping it silenced.)

“Thought I’d come for a visit. Your friend’s out and everything.” Of course, _of course_ he made sure Henry left before coming in. “Why, are you about to call the cops on me?”

“I probably should,” Tom says, knowing that he never would, and looks down at the counter in an attempt to get a break from Chetwode’s unwavering gaze. “But no, I won’t.” And before he knows it, he’s looking up again. “Not that I think it would do much, seeing that you’re here and all.”

“But it did take me two years to come back here,” Chetwode refutes, and his smile is still a bit crooked, but it still gives space for a bit of something else, and Tom is, all fo a sudden, acutely aware that Chetwode hasn’t forgotten the night before his arrest. That that might’ve something to do with why he is here.

Chetwode is opening his mouth, but Tom doesn’t give him time to speak. “Drinks tomorrow, on me? I have to close today, but Henry can do it tomorrow.”

Chetwode’s a hard man to read, but Tom knows that the smile he gives him is pleased, and maybe a little surprised. Tom likes that a lot. “Very well. I’ll come pick you up. Say, four?”

Tom nods, “That’s good, yes.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Chetwode says, and tips his hat before walking back onto the street.

Tom watches him every step of the way. There’s a spark in his belly that he thinks Chetwode might be more than capable of turning into a flame.

He tells Henry that he needs to leave early to go buy his present for Sybbie, for her birthday in a couple of weeks. It’s not his best excuse, but Henry buys it, and at four Tom finds himself making his way out of the store, wondering about how did it come to be that he started lying to his whole family. It doesn't bother him all that much, and he feels justified; he just never thought he would be in a position where he would need to again.

(And, to be honest, a part of him has come to relish in these bits of his life that no one has any idea about.)

He meets Che- James — and God, he should really ask the man how he wants to be called — on the street across the store. They end up walking the whole length of it before Chetwode tips his head in acknowledgment, saying that he knows a pub a few streets over.

(A part of him, he acknowledges later, was almost expecting to have Chetwode’s hand on his back guiding the way, just like… just like last time. The whole away, it feels like he’s carrying the ghost of it on his back.)

Even though Chetwode chose the place, it is Tom that goes to the balcony to ask for two pints, and carries them back to the quiet corner Chetwode had chosen for them.

“So, what should I call you now?” Tom asks as he sits down, handing Chetwode his drink and carefully not thinking about their fingers brushing. ( _God_ , could he be more like a fucking school girl?!)

“Chetwode is fine, if it’s a hard change. Just be careful of where you say it. James is fine too, if you prefer. However,” And here Chetwode looks up, gives him a smile that has a bit of a smug edge to it. “I’m partial to Louis.”

“Louis?” Tom asks. He had taken off his coat the moment they got in the overheated pub, but it seems like it won’t be enough to keep him from burning under Chetwode’s smile.

“My given name. But like I said, use whichever one you want. Just-”

“Be careful. Yeah, I got that,” Tom nods. “Well, I’ll go for Louis then, but you call me Tom.”

Chetwode smiles again, pleased and warm, “Very well, then. Tom.” He takes a sip of his beer, letting the name settle. “Well, tell me then what you actually do. I’m afraid I never caught it.”

They talk for hours, and Tom doesn’t think he’s ever talked so much in one sitting in his life, but somehow Chetwo- Louis, now, seems to be even quieter than him, so Tom talks. A part of him is sure that Louis is cautious of sharing too much, and Tom can hardly blame him. Besides, Louis is easy to talk to, all blue eyes and small smile. There are moments where Tom finds himself thinking that he would never be able to deny him anything.

They end up ordering food and Tom maybe has a few too many pints — Louis drank his last one during dinner, claiming that one of them had to be aware enough to drive them back — and that’s how Tom ends up splayed into the passenger seat of Louis car, watching him drive, watching Louis’ small, pleased smile at being watched. He stops the car in the village — and God, how insane does this man have to be to come back to the same place where he was arrested just a few years ago — and walks him to the house. Louis says goodbye just before they come into full view of the Abbey, sending Tom on his way. Tom feels Louis’ gaze burn his back as he walks home alone.

Unsurprisingly, everyone’s already in bed when he arrives. Tom tries to appear sober enough when Thomas meets him in the hall, and gives a half-hearted explanation about how he got distracted by the hour and ended up having dinner in a pub — which is more or less the truth. More or less. (The distinction seems important.)

He ends up staying half the night awake, even with his drunken brain, thinking about how he would’ve kissed Louis outside of the pub, or against his car, or maybe as they walked to the house, but there is Lucy in London, and… and it doesn’t matter how much he thinks he’s the one keeping them from moving forward, it is still a relationship, and Tom is not willing to throw it out the window. He’s too confused to sleep and too drunk to figure anything out, so he just stares at the ceiling, feeling himself burn from the inside out.

Tom kind of lives on that limbo for a while, feeling too much and not figuring anything out. He ends up meeting with Louis almost every other day, just a pint after work, with their gazes and their touches becoming more lingering every time, in a kind of slow burn that is eating Tom alive. He sees Lucy, too: goes down to London more and more often, spends more and more nights cooking with her and going on walks. One time, he actually goes to London for a car show and he asks Lucy if she wants to go with him. It is clearly doesn’t interest her much, but she is just as present there as she is in anything she does. In payment, he goes to the theater with her the next time he stays over.

Louis and Lucy become two parts of his life that don’t collide, two parts that he keeps to himself. It’s funny: he doesn’t remember the last time he had to figure out something on his own; usually, the Crawleys voices are in his ear, telling him what to do, before he can even figure out he has to do anything. It’s a new kind of freedom, and though it is about a messy and complicated subject that leaves him feeling all kinds of guilty, he still treasures it.

And he does figure something out, eventually. He figures he owns them some kind of honesty, that keeping himself stranded in this place he found himself in, where he doesn’t take but doesn’t give, is not the best way to keep something running smoothly.

It’s easier with Louis. It’s easy to talk about Lucy every now and then, to be honest with him about what he does in London, because, at the end of the day, he doesn’t own him much. He knows he must be all degrees of confusing when he can’t stop himself from talking about her with all the infatuation he feels coming through his voice while still brushing his fingers against Louis’ the next time he hands him a pint, but he’s trying to figure things out. He _is_. And Louis is always there next time, so he mustn’t mind too much. Probably.

With Lucy, however, he can’t just drop things into conversation. He does what he can, making up a story about how Louis, who he carefully always calls James, is an old acquaintance and they’ve been meeting up. It’s probably not his smartest idea, making up a lie when the situation, as far as he can see, is already a mess, but he can hardly tell her about Louis’ arrest and subsequent escape.

Eventually, he does tell her the truth about Louis, _his_ truth about Louis. It’s on one of those nights where she and Maud had come to visit, and Mary ends up looking at them suspiciously across the dinner table, trying to figure out if there’s more going on than she knows about, while Henry deliberately looks the other way in an attempt to not give anything way.

After dinner, while everyone else go for drinks in the drawing room, Tom excuses them to the library, where he pours them two generous glasses of scotch. He’s not sure if they’re for courage or to drown their sorrows afterwards.

“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” he starts, and he regrets it immediately, because is there any worse way to start? It’s done, though, and goes from there: slowly tries to explain to her a little bit about how he and Louis first met, about how he came back when Tom least expected, and that he’s been feeling more in this two months than he ever thought possible after Sybil died. He’s putting far more on the line than he probably should, talking about what he wants with Louis in a way that’s not too explicit, but that carries the message.

(He can’t possible tell her about how he wants to push him against the closest wall whenever they’re together; about how his smile, all coy and rough, is the most infuriating thing he’s ever seen and how hot that leaves him; about how, every now and then, Louis brushes the tip of his shoe in a reprise of that first night, and Tom feels like he’s going mad. No, he carefully doesn’t say any of that.)

“I don’t know what to do with this,” he says at last. Lucy has let him speak his mind without interruptions. He doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. “I don’t even know how I want you to react,” he adds, feeling a bit hysteric. Perhaps it would be easier if she handed him an ultimatum, though he doesn’t know how he’d react to that either.

On the one hand, Lucy is the easiest, most fulfilling person in his life, and Tom falls desperately in love with her anytime they’re together. He treasures their moments together, like when she’s singing under her breath or guiding him in the kitchen; he holds them close in his heart. On the other hand, there’s Louis, who seems to have reached for something inside of Tom that he had never cared too much for, and broken it open. He doesn’t know if he could ever reign it in again, or if he even wants to.

All Lucy does, bless her, is pat the place beside her, so he seats. And then she sighs, a little helpless but not in a good way, and buries her face in her hands. “I don’t know either.” She takes a sip of her scotch, untouched till now, and Tom mimics her even though he’s already on his second. “I can’t ask you to choose… I- I can’t live with that uncertainty, wondering if you’re with me because you were put on the spot. I just can’t.” Tom doesn’t answer, let’s her figure out her thoughts, and tries to make himself as invisible as possible. She hasn’t commented on the fact that they’re talking about another man. Tom doesn’t know if he’s relieved, or if he wants to get the inevitable reaction to it out of the way.

Lucy gets up, pulling Tom out of his thoughts, and he watches her as she finishes her glass and puts it on the table to be taken away. “I think I’m going to bed. I need to think about all of this. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” She smiles, a little tight but still honest. Perhaps that’s a good sign.

“Sure. Goodnight,” he answers. His throat is dried and his voice almost doesn’t come out.

“Goodnight.”

He can’t remember the last time they didn’t kiss goodnight.

He gets up early the next morning, not that there was must sleep happening to begin with. He leaves the house without breakfast and slowly makes his way to the graveyard, to where Sybil lays. He comes here often enough that it doesn’t feel foreign. Sometimes, it feels a bit like coming home, like it usually feels whenever he goes to the places that hold a bit of Sybil in their memory.

When he gets there, his mind, strangely enough, gets pulled way by memory of Ireland, about how finding their footing there was hard, about the few bad fights they had at the beginning. Sybil was all kindness and goodness, unless you poked her in the wrong way, and they were two hotheads trying to sort their mess out. Tom loved that about her.

He can’t imagine what she would say if she were here. He’d never been good at imagining people’s reactions, which was probably what made him do things with no second thoughts so often. He wonders if this is one of those occasions, where he’s going about things wrong because he doesn’t have the ability to see the bigger picture.

He remembers a burning house. He doesn’t know what to do with any of it.

He doesn’t come to Sybil for absolution, though there have been moments in his life when he felt like he should. Weirdly enough, he doesn’t feel like he’s doing the wrong thing, it doesn’t feel _bad_. If he could change anything about the situation, he would have them come into his life at different times; perhaps if he’d had more time with Louis before he was arrested, he wouldn’t be feeling this desperate pull now.

Tom doesn’t know how long he stands there; enough for the sun to rise, dissipating the rest of the night. He stands there, breathing in the fresh air, letting Sybil’s calming presence be a beacon of support for him.

She’d have wanted him to be happy, he doesn’t doubt that now. He just needs to figure out what happiness looks like.

He goes for a walk with Lucy after lunch, leaving Henry to manage the shop for the day. They go far away enough that no one can hear them, until it’s just the grass and the two of them. It could pass for any other visit, except there’s a tension so thick between them that Tom is having a hard time breathing.

“I spent the night thinking of what you told me, and I’ve reach some conclusions,” Lucy starts, after a few moments of none of them saying anything. “First is that, I don’t know if I should’ve seen this coming... I mean, I probably wouldn’t, I-” She sighs, shakes her head, and tries again. “What I mean is, once I knew how to connect the dots, I was not that surprised at what I found.” She looks at him, sincere and calm, calmer than he is at any rate. “You don’t talk about him, about James, often, but when you do, you have this way of talking about him, I just- It’s different from when you talk about… I don’t know, Henry, or Mary, or anyone else. You’d have to see it to understand it,” she concludes, smiling, probably at how clueless he must look.

Before she can continue, Tom interrupts her, “But doesn’t it bother that he’s… Well, a he?” He can’t hold it in any longer, even though he knows he should probably give her the same space she gave him last night. Since his openness the night before, he had been acutely aware that this is something men go to prison for. He just needs to know.

Lucy tils her head. “I’m not sure. I thought about it, last night, and I just think that… I don’t know. First I thought that you being with me was because you were confused, but you always…” She laughs, blushes a little. “You’re always very eager,” she says, smiling when he laughs, a little hysteric thing. It is true, after all. “Beyond that, I think that this would be just as hard if we were talking about another woman, and that it… You must’ve been scared last night, about it, and you still told me. I see that, and I’m not angry. I’m a bit lost, and a bit disappointed, and overall I don’t really know what to feel or think, because there’s no guidebook for this, you know?” She’s rambling a bit, Tom notices. He’s never seen her like this before. A part of him treasures it. “But that fact that ‘he’s a he’, as you put it, I just don’t think it matters much when it comes to figuring out what is going to happen to us.”

While he’s enjoying the relief that comes with that statement, she keeps going, “Like I said last night, I’m not going to ask you to choose. That’s not me, I can’t do it. And I don’t want to break up with you either, because I like you a lot, you know?” She smiles at him, bumps her shoulder against his arm. “Like I said, there’s no guidebook for this, and if there was, I bet it would tell me to run for the hills while I can,” she says that with a laugh, but it sounds somewhat bitter. “But I don’t want that. If we can, I think it would be better for us to figure this out. Together. Perhaps we’ll manage to find our new normal.”

Tom hadn’t known what he was expecting last night when he brought all of this up, only knew that he owed her his honesty. Nevertheless, he wasn’t expecting this olive branch. “How… How do you propose we do it?” He asks, a little lost.

“You say that you feel like you’ve been putting things on hold, and I can see where that comes from, though I don’t think that’s very fair.” Tom smiles, sheepish. They’ve always had their disagreements. “I say we put things a bit more on hold. Dwell back on the relationship side of things while we figure how we want going forward.” She pauses, takes a deep breath. “And I think it would be good if I met you fellow. I think he should be involved in some parts of this conversation.”

And that will be… Weird, if Tom’s being honest with himself, seeing these two people that he feels so lost in sitting together in front of him. But it sounds like a fair request, and so he doesn’t even have to think much before he says, “Alright.”

Lucy goes back to London that night. It will probably be good, for each of them to get a little space before they push things forward. He meets with Louis a couple of days after, for pints after work. Henry must notice that he’s a bit restless, because he asks him if he’s alright before he leaves. Tom nods, smiles, stays that he and Lucy have fought and are trying to figure out how to go from there. Henry has kept his secrets for years now; it seems fair to give him a little bit of the truth.

He and Louis have pretty much tried every pub around the shop over the course of the weeks they’ve been meeting up, but they always end up going back to that first one. The place is loud, smelly, and overheated, but nobody notices them there.

“Lucy would like to meet you,” he says after Louis comes back to the table with their drinks.

Louis looks up, surprised, and takes a sip before answering. “And what would be the purpose of this… meeting?” He asks, setting his glass down a reaching for his paper napkin. It’s something he does often, tearing his napkin to shreds while Tom talks; he didn’t use to, though, so Tom suspects it is some weird sign of his comfort, the same way Lucy sings and dances while she cooks. He loves watching them.

It’s Tom turn to take a sip, trying to figure out how to put things. “I told her about you.” He pauses, backtracks. “Not about you, about us. About this,” he says, not really knowing how to refer to something that has never happened.

“Oh,” Louis says easily. He seems surprised again. Tom suddenly gets the idea that, though Louis keeps on touching his ankle, on touching his hands, on making eyes at him and smiling at him, he never really thought it would go further than that, that Tom would do anything about him. Louis seems surprised, but a little delighted, and Tom is suddenly a bit giddy too. “And she wants to meet… me?”

Tom nods. “She said that she wants us to figure this out, to find ‘our new normal’, and that she feels like you should be part of the conversation.” Louis looks as intrigued as Tom feels. He still doesn’t understand how he will not end up making choice some time or another. He doesn’t understand what Lucy’s hoping to achieve, but she seemed so certain. And besides, Tom trusts her. So, they’ll meet, and Tom hopes no one ends up in a rage fit. (Mostly him. He hopes he doesn’t end up in a rage fit.)

“I… Alright, then. Just tell me the date and I’ll set it up.”

“You don’t have to be the one to set it up,” Tom says. “I can do it.”

“No, it’s my treat,” Louis says, firmly. Tom doesn’t understand what’s going on in his mind, but then Louis brushes his fingers against his and Tom loses his train of thought. Louis smiles coyly, as if he knows what he’s doing, damn him.

The next time Lucy comes to Downton is about a month and a half after their talk. Tom hasn’t gone down to London in the meantime, but they’ve written and talked on the phone, usually when he’s alone at the store so no one would bother him, and it’s different and not quite as good, but better than it could’ve been.

When she arrives, it almost feels as if nothing happened. They kiss each other on the cheek hello, like they’ve been doing for months, and Mary still glares at them from across the table while Cora makes slight references to a wedding. It’s still a bit annoying, but he’s grown used to it (which is a familiar enough feeling when it comes to the Crawleys). To be honest, he’s surprised that Mary’s not as onto them as she usually is, and he suspects he has Henry to thank for it. They have dinner at the house that first night, but they say they have plans for the next. Their reactions are about what he expected, all smiles and slight glances, whispers about rings and boxes.

Tom drives them into Rippon, to the restaurant where Louis — James, for the night — got them a table. He’s already there when they arrive, waiting for them by the entrance.

“You must be Mr. Allsopp,” Lucy says, smiling but a little apprehensive. When Louis kisses her hand in greeting Tom feels weird. He doesn’t know what that’s about.

Louis looks stiffer than Tom has seen him in months, the way he is whenever they’re around someone new. “I am. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Smith.” Then he nods at Tom, as if he doesn’t know how to greet him. Tom’s at a loss, too. They’re in a whole new situation, and none of them knows exactly what to do. “Tom.”

“James,” he responds, acutely aware of the strange way the name rolls on his tongue.

“I’m going to get a waiter to take us to our table,” Louis says, and then turns. Tom feels that he’s trying to give them a moment. Lucy smiles at him, somehow looking both sure and nervous, and squeezes his hand. He squeezes back.

It’s a nice restaurant; it clearly shows that Louis is trying to make a good impression. Nowhere near would the places Mary or Robert might have taken him, but it is clean and the food smells good, and when the waiter takes them to their table, Tom notices that it is in a quiet spot. He knows Louis doesn’t like feeling like he’s in the middle of too many people, but he feels this is for their privacy as much as for his comfort.

They order quietly, none of them much of a talker, and Tom too nervous to really do anything about it. And then Louis says, “Tom told me you’ve began working for his sister’s magazine,” and God, Tom could kiss him right then. He quietly presses his feet against Louis’ ankle as Lucy talks. They’ve never traded roles like that before, and Louis jumps slightly, but then he relaxes into it, and for the first time Tom thinks that maybe something good can come from this after all.

When Lucy finishes talking about her job at Edith’s magazine, Louis offers a bit about he does. To this day, Tom’s still not sure if Louis really works at the school in Rippon or if he’s just entertaining him, but that’s what he tells Lucy about it, and when he says it he doesn’t seem to be lying.

Somehow, one of them manages to steer the conversation into politics in a very un-English way, and if there’s a thing both Tom and Louis could talk for hours, is that. They’ve done it several times, really, once they found a common topic that they’re both too opinioned on (and Tom hadn’t had anyone to talk to about it in years, so it felt odd at first, but as with anything when Louis is concerned, he’s come to relish in it). Lucy seems to find that amusing, offering her opinion every now and then, but mostly she seems happy in watching them. It is the kind of role reversal Tom is not used to, but she seems to be looking for something, so Tom gives her the space to do so.

Afterwards, once Louis has paid for them without even giving them a chance to protest, they go for a walk. Rippon is all streets and alleyways and not much green, but Louis doesn’t let them get lost. The conversation has steered back into safer topics, mostly music and books, and though Tom is not much help on the first, he’s surprised to find that Louis can easily keep up with Lucy. Funny, he didn’t know Louis knew so much about it.

“I think we should call it a night,” Lucy says, once their car comes into view. “It was a pleasure meeting you, James.” At some point during dinner they had steered into first names territory, in what Tom considers a positive sign.

“I had a great evening,” Louis says, always a bit at a loss whenever he has to do pleasantries. He and Tom had dropped them some time ago.

“And thank you for the dinner, it was lovely,” Lucy adds. “Next time it’s on us.” And okay, apparently there will be a next time. That’s good, right?

“I’d be delighted,” Louis says, and he doesn’t seem to be lying.

They climb into the car and Louis tips their hat at them as Tom turns on the engine. Lucy waves back, and then they’re on their way.

“I liked him,” Lucy offers as Tom drives. He glances at her briefly, completely at a loss on what he’s supposed to do with it.

“I… That’s good?” He mustn’t sound too sure. Lucy laughs and puts a hand on his thigh.

“Relax, you’ve been stiff all night,” she says. Tom wonders about how he’s supposed to do it. Watching them interact was as unsettling as he thought it would be. He feels completely out of his depth.

“I know. It’s just…” He thinks about what he wants to say. “I don’t know what we’re doing here. I mean, what are we trying to accomplish?”

Lucy hums, “I’m not too sure either,” she admits. “Coming tonight, I just thought it would be good to see who the other person is, you know? Instead of dealing with a situation that I’m not fully aware of.”

Tom can see that, can maybe even see how that would be beneficial. He just can’t see what she wants to do with it. “And now?” he prompts. “I mean, you mentioned a next time, and it seemed sincere. I guess I just want to know where we’re headed.” It’s not all he wants to say, but he cannot bring himself to say the rest. ‘Because if you don’t want me to keep on meeting him I don’t think this is the best way to go about it’ is not the right thing to say after Lucy had told him she wouldn’t make him chose. He just doesn’t see how that is possible.

“And now… I kind of like him. He’s nice, he has similar tastes to yours, I can see why you like him.” From the corner of his eye, he sees her smirking, which can’t be good. “He’s handsome.”

He’s blushing. For God’s sake, he’s _blushing_. “Please don’t go there.”

“I’m sorry,” and she’s laughing, of all things. “Just wanted to see how you’d react. And he is handsome, I was being honest.” She sobers up a little, relaxes more into the seat. “If you want to see him… Like, _see him_ , I think I’d be fine with that,” she says quietly.

Tom can’t help himself: he looks way from the road, sees her watching him carefully. “I wouldn’t cheat on you,” he responds, because he’s always been careful about that. He might be a lot of things, but he’s not a cheater.

“I’m not saying you are,” Lucy says easily. “I’m saying that if you want to be with him, I don’t mind. We probably might not agree on this, but it doesn’t feel much like cheating when I’m saying it’s fine.”

Tom hums and doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what to say, really. He feels so out of his depth, because the idea of eventually having to choose, of having to make a decision, was always there in the back of his mind, an imminent thing that he’s been trying to run from.

“I don’t want to break things off with you,” he grumbles, because it feels like they’re speaking two different languages.

“Tom, darling,” She only calls him ‘darling’ when he’s being really dense, which is exactly like he feels right now. “I don’t see how I saying that it’d be fine would take place in a conversation of me breaking things off with you.” She pauses, let’s that sink in, and adds as an afterthought, “Which is not what I’m doing.”

And… “Oh.” He thinks maybe he’s getting what she means, even though the idea seems to not fit into his head. She’s saying he could be with… Both of them? Is that it? It does feel like someone’s speaking a foreign language too him. He’s feeling so out of his depth.

Lucy laugh, kind, and puts a hand on his arm, stroking lightly. “I can’t believe I had this idea before you. You know, at first, when we had the conversation in the library, I thought that this is what you were going to ask for. It wasn’t until the day after that I figured you weren’t.”

“I…” He stops, licks his lips. Why is it that whenever he’s with either of them, it feels like everything is new and he knows nothing? “It had never crossed my mind,” he admits.

“I didn’t think I’d be fine with it either, but then I saw you together, and you work so well. Why ruin such a good thing, when maybe we can build something amazing?” She laughs at his incredulous face. “I mean, it feels frightening- terrifying, really, and I don’t really know what I’m doing either, but when I think of the other options, this one doesn’t feel wrong, you know?”

“Not really,” Tom says, shaking his head. “I’ll be honest, I never really thought much beyond the fact that there’s one too many people in my head.”

She nods, understanding. “I’m not saying you have to do anything. And we don’t have to write it in stone right now. For God’s sake, _I_ might change my mind! It’s just…” She sighs. From the corner of his eye, Tom sees her resting her head back. “We live in a society that would rather have me be an orphan than let me have a mother. I’m not much of a rebel, but even I know that just because things are different, it doesn’t mean they’re wrong.”

“You said we should figure out our normal,” he remembers, thinking out loud.

“Yes, if that’s what you want too.”

“And where does that leave us?” he asks, because that seems important too.

“I think if you want to come over again I wouldn’t refuse that,” she says, and Tom looks away from the road again to watch her wiggle her eyebrows.

“Yes, my _eagerness_ was probably missed,” he says dryly. Downton’s coming into view; they’re only a couple minutes away now.

She laughs, hearty and happy. Tom has missed that. “It was,” she says. Tom’s not looking at her, but he knows she’s blushing. “I didn’t say we should put things on hold as a punishment, I just needed to figure out how I was feeling,” she adds, and Tom gets the feeling she’s been meaning to say that for a while.

“I know, and I didn’t think you were.” They smile at each other briefly, before Tom’s pulling up into Downton. Lucy carefully separates from him and puts the expected amount of space between them. Tom misses her by his side.

Even though Lucy said it would be alright, he doesn’t really know what to do with it. So, the next time he goes out for drinks with Louis, all he does is ask him if he enjoyed dinner, and when Louis smiles and nods his head, he trusts him. Their fingers are brushing over the table, and Tom takes advantage of the darkness in the pub to intertwine them briefly. Louis smiles, surprised, then relaxes, and when he starts talking about something he read on the paper that morning, the toe of his shoe is resting against Tom’s ankle.

It seems like things go back to normal for a while, as if all the mess of the last few weeks didn’t happen. He gets drinks with Louis every other day, eventually even introduces him to Henry one day, because by this point it seems ridiculous not to and Henry is safe since they never met before. Henry even joins them for drinks one time. And in between that, he goes down to London every now and then, spends a couple nights with Lucy in her flat, as they did before everything. Somedays, it seems like nothing’s happened.

Except, some things change, too. Lucy is more deliberate when she asks him about Louis, and he feels that she’s trying to reassure him in little ways that everything is fine. And Louis asks him about Lucy too, and they do end up going for dinner a few weeks after, with Tom paying this time. Lucy doesn’t bring the subject of _James and Tom, together_ again, and when Tom asks her about it, all she says is that it is something for him to figure out. He feels a bit lost with that.

One day, when Louis and he go out for a walk for a change, Louis asks him, “Would it be alright if I wrote to her?” Tom looks at him, surprised, but Louis must’ve mistaken it for something else because he adds in a bit of hurry, “It’s just, I’d like to continue the conversation we were having at dinner the other week.” Tom nods, because of course he can, and hands him a paper with her address scribbled on it. It feels weird, new, but not entirely unpleasant, the idea that they’re building a relationship outside of him.

And that’s all that happens for a while. Things for Tom keep on being pretty much the same, except now they all go for dinner every now and then, and Louis has some kind of rapport with Lucy, but he respects their privacy and doesn’t ask for more than they’re willing to give.

There is this one time where Louis goes down to London with him. This time, the three of them have dinner at Lucy’s flat — “What would my mom say, me alone with two men,” she laughs jokingly at some point. — Music is playing in the background, and they all have a glass of wine in their hands, and Tom spends the night watching them move around each other, and it feels so _right_. Louis had offered to get a room to stay the night, but Lucy insisted in he using the guest room, and something about that leaves Tom deeply unsettled. The fact that Louis is sleeping right across from their room leaves him burning in all sort of ways, and when he goes down on Lucy that night, with her covering her mouth in an attempt to keep quiet, he must look quite desperate because she keeps on laughing and on petting his hair, as if telling him it would be alright.

However, that’s all that happens differently for a while. Until one afternoon Louis asks if he’d like to come over, saying that he’d like to cook dinner for them — they had discovered in London that Louis was much better in the kitchen than him — and Tom doesn’t even think before saying yes.

Tom doesn’t really know what excuse he should give the Crawleys this time, so he settles on telling them that he has few errands to run that afternoon and that he doesn’t know if he’ll be home by dinner time. He figures that, should dinner take long, he’ll just have to slip in later. That’s easy enough to do, and anyway, he’s a grown man. He can stay out if he wants to.

He’s the one who closes the shop that day, and Louis is waiting for him outside when he does, by the door this time since Henry isn’t there to see them. It’s Louis who drives, and Tom realizes suddenly that he’s never seen his house. He leaves somewhere between Rippon and Downton Village, in a small cottage that is a little bit isolated and Tom isn’t surprised in the least.

“It’s not mine,” Louis says as they make their way inside, lightning the house as he goes. “It’s the schools’, but I quite like it, to be honest.” So his job isn’t a lie. Tom is a little surprised. “Will they be waiting for you?” Louis asks. Tom figured out pretty early that Louis doesn’t like to talk about the Crawleys, is not very fond of the family in general, and Tom can’t help but understand it. By now, he loves them like they’re his own blood, but sometimes he wonders if his feelings would grow like that hadn’t he been swallowed into the house.

“Probably, but I wouldn’t worry too much,” he answers, as Louis hands him a glass of wine. Tom watches him as he goes into the living room and lights the fireplace. Louis’ house seems lived in. They aren’t any pictures, but there’s a thrown blanket on the couch, a mug above the fireplace, an open newspaper on the kitchen table. Something about the mess makes the house seem that much more homely.

Louis tells him to seat on the kitchen table, something about ‘getting him out of the way’ while he cooks. He laughs, and Tom laughs too, and the nervous flies on his belly seem to grow. It’s weird that he’s enjoying the feeling, when the anticipation has been building for months now. It gets worse whenever Louis puts a hand on his shoulder or brushes his back as he moves — now that they’re in private he seems much free about his touches, and there are moments when he seems to be constantly touching Tom somewhere.

He makes them a small but homely meal that tastes nothing like Mrs. Patmore’s cooking, and Tom loves it all the more for it. It feels familiar, like coming home.

They drink more than they probably should, with Louis not worried about having to pace himself for once, and by the end the nervousness has given place to warmth and anticipation, so when Louis grabs his face and kisses him against the kitchen counter after they lay down their dishes, Tom is nothing but content. There’s fire building under his skin, and Louis keeps on kissing him, and kissing him, and kissing him, and he starts to wonder if he’s more drunk from the wine, or from the taste of the other man.

They move from the kitchen counter to the opposite wall, and it’s Tom pressing him into it this time, kissing him while trying to get his hands under his shirt, not caring for the layers of clothes before it. And then Louis pulls away, his head bumping against the wall as he does, and when Tom tries to follow him, he puts his hands on his chest, just like the last time. He huffs at it and Louis smiles, coy and confident, and pecks him on the lips. “A bed would probably be nice,” he says against Tom’s cheek. He’s taking off Tom’s tie and then his hands are on the buttons of his shirt, looking down as he undoes them meticulously.

“I’ve never gotten past this before,” Tom admits, not clarifying that he’s talking about his experiences with men because Louis will understand. He doesn’t even know why he says it, really, because he’s not all that nervous.

Louis nods. Tom feels his hair against his face as he does it. “That’s alright. Do you want to?”

“Yes,” he probably sounds too eager, but he’s a bit tipsy and he’s been waiting for this for over two and a half years. Who cares how he sounds. He’s always been kind of a fool when he’s in love anyway (and _that_ is something he doesn’t let himself dwell on).

Louis finishes unbuttoning his shirt, pushes it aside and rests his hand on his belly over his undershirt. God, why do they wear so many clothes? “To bed it is, then.”

Louis doesn’t let him go as they go into the bedroom. Tom’s jacket has been dumped on the floor somewhere along the way, so he does the same to Louis’, and when they reach the bedroom Louis pushes him against the wall by the door, kisses him hard before letting him go and sitting on the bed to work on his shoes. Tom mimics him, but forgets to finish it when he gets distracted by Louis’ neck. Before he knows it, he’s kissing him right there, in the open skin that shows when he has his head lowered, and Louis laughs at it — or at him, and he’s too turned on to care, has been for months — and stops what he’s doing to press him into the bed, kissing him senseless.

Tom has never noticed much of the differences that there are between kissing a man and kissing a woman before, but he notices them now. He’s suddenly acutely aware of the way Louis is heavy enough to press him into the bed, of how big and large he is and some part of him must find it very appealing because he feels himself grow harder in his pants. His shirt eventually gets discarded, and his undershirt goes with it, and when Tom makes an impatient noise at how long it takes to unbutton Louis’, the man pulls back, kneeling on the bed, and smiles down at him as he finishes the work. He shifts while he does it, getting a leg between Toms’, and then his thigh is pressing into his cock over clothes, and _heavens_.

Louis eventually gets his clothes off, finally getting on top of Tom again, all warm skin and muscle and hair, and Tom’s hand are restless, touching everywhere, anything he can reach, and Louis’ thigh is still pressed against his cock, even as Louis bites his shoulder and starts undoing his belt, and then his hand is under his underpants, his touch so warm, hand so big, and Tom stops thinking entirely.

It must be a little after five when Tom wakes up, and there’s an arm around him, Louis’ face pressed into his shoulder. For a moment he’s surprised that Louis’ is a cuddler, and then he’s not, given how much he’s prone to touch Tom if he feels comfortable. Tom feels like he should be panicking, but he’s still too satiated for that.

Regardless, he knows that he should be back at the Abbey for breakfast. He thinks of trying to slip away, but he doesn’t think it would be fair, and anyway, he has no way of going home since he came here in Louis’ car.

Tom shakes him awake, laughs when Louis buries himself in the covers in answer while saying, “Go wash up. I’ll drive you.”

It’s the first time Tom has to look for his discarded clothes across a house; he doesn’t know how he feels about that. In the kitchen, he sees their dirty plates by the sink, and the leftovers of the food turned cold on the table. It makes him feel some kind of way that he can’t really decipher, but there’s something warm in his belly.

Louis washes up while Tom gets dressed and tries to compose himself as best he can for when he will inevitably bumps into Thomas, or Daisy, or worse, Mrs. Hughes. Louis doesn’t bother to search for his discarded clothes, dressing instead in only a pair of pants thrown over a chair and a sweater that has seen better days. He looks sleepy but comfortable, and keeps on smiling every time he catches Tom looking at him — pretty often, since Tom is always watching him.

Louis kisses him deep and hard before pulling him out of the bedroom, and it’s good that Louis is taking him by hand instead of waiting for Tom to follow him, because he’s not sure he would.

Just like last time Louis brought him home, he parks near the village and then accompanies him home. Tom feels like he should feel a bit ridiculous being brought home like that, but right now he’s relishing on any moments he can get. This time, Tom does kiss him before they come into view of the house; aware that people are out at this time of the day, he pulls them into the trees, and then kisses him some more.

“Drinks tomorrow?” Louis asks against his lips.

“Sure,” Tom answers. He feels happier than he thought possible.

Mary questions him relentless about where he spent the night, and Tom has to bite his tongue really hard not to tell her to piss off, partly because he loves her, but mostly because an angry Mary can be dangerous, and that’s the last thing he wants right now. So he tells her he got too drunk to come home, that he didn’t have a car because he had gone with Henry that morning, and she doesn’t totally buy it, but doesn’t doubt him enough to ask for more. Nonetheless, Tom he knows he’ll be under close watch for a while now. Part of him — most of him — stills think it was worth it.

Somehow, visits to Louis house manage to find their rightful place in his schedule. They just start going there instead of going for drinks some days, and dinner is forgotten in place of sex and making sure Tom is home in time for dinner with his family instead. It’s not ideal, and if he could have it any other way he would, but it’s better and safer than any other option.

He still goes down to London when he can, mostly alone save for the times where Louis goes with him, and Lucy still comes to Downton whenever her mother is available. The first time she finds a mark not made by her on his body — they’re not really common, because Louis, unlike Tom, apparently doesn’t have a thing for scratching or biting, but sometimes they happen —, Tom freezes. It’s a love bite on his shoulder, a place where no one would see with clothes on, but she smiles at him and kisses him gently with her thumb pressing into it in a way that Tom finds it endlessly hot.

Overall, things are good. Life’s good, better than it was before. Until one time, when he comes outside to play with Sybbie, she sits beside him in the grass. “Daddy,” she starts, looking down, playing with the hem of her dress, “if I wanted to, do you think it would be alright if I went to school?”

“Sure. Where would you like to go to school?” he says easily, trying not to pressure her when she’s so visibly nervous.

“I don’t know.” She sighs dramatically and lays down on the grass, looking up at the sky. “Somewhere with horses, and with other girls for me to be friends with.”

“What brought this on?” he laughs, turning to look at her.

“I don’t know,” she says again. “It’s just… George will be going away soon and I don’t want to be alone.”

“You won’t be alone. You have Caroline and Johnny. And Johnny’s sibling, when it arrives,” he counters.

“I know, but they always play together and never want to play with me,” she explains, getting up again. She grabs his arms so she can pull him up, and he huffs, pretends his too tired to get up just to see her smile.

“If that’s what you want, then we’ll talk about it, alright?” She beams at him, gives him a hug before running away.

He doesn’t think much of it at first, but as the plans for George’s leave become more and more talked about, so do Sybbie’s. And _that_ leaves him wondering because… He’s learned to love the Abbey like home. It’s the only place he’s ever lived in that wasn’t Ireland. But if Sybbie wants to go away… By God, he doesn’t want to be the one to hold her back, even if seeing her go away would hurt like hell. He knows Sybil would support it, and that’s enough for him.

But if Sybbie goes away, why should he stay? Before, he would have no reasons to go, but now he has Lucy, and he has Louis, and recently the Abbey has become a little more restrictive than he remembered.

“Sybbie, if you left to school, would it be alright if I left too?” he asks one day as she’s putting her in bed. George is always out like a light, so he’s not afraid of anybody hearing them.

“Forever?” she asks, shocked.

“Of course not.” He laughs, cocooning her in the blankets. “We would come back whenever you wanted to. But maybe I’d like to marry Lucy, and I can’t stay here if I do.” It’s not the whole truth, but it is all that she needs to know.

“I think that’d be fine. I like Lucy,” she says, smiling sleepily.

“Me too,” he agrees, while they smile at each other.

Tom purposes to Lucy a couple of weeks later. He tells Louis first, mostly because Louis is a part of the relationship now and he wants him to know, but also because he needs help to buy a ring and he feels like Louis will have a good eye for it. Even though Louis seems surprised at the request, he helps easily, and so Tom takes an afternoon off to go into York with him. They buy a ring, something simple and beautiful, and then go out for drinks because they’re nothing if not predictable.

He purposes to her in the only place he can imagine doing it. The kitchen of her flat, with music playing in the background. He gets the box out, goes down on one knee and everything. She’s surprised but not shocked, and she kisses him with a smile on her face.

He goes back home and only tells them a week later, when Lucy comes to break the news with him. They go out with Louis the night before, dinner at a small restaurant with dance and drinks after, nothing like what they usually do. The club was, to their surprised, Louis’ idea, and Tom understands the cleverness of having a getaway dance floor when he says, “I should come clean about something.”

“Huh?” Lucy wonders, taking a sip from Tom’s bear. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s complicated, but long story short, my name is not really James. I… A while back I had to start over. My name’s actually Louis,” it is too simple a way to tell the story, but they’re at a club getting drinks. Tom thinks it looks plenty.

“Did you know?” Lucy asks, surprised, looking at him.

It’s Tom’s turn for a sip. “It wasn’t my secret to tell,” he says, squeezing Louis’ hand over the table. They’re hidden enough and nobody other than Lucy is looking at them. It is as safe as it will ever be.

“Well…” She says, pensive. Tom has the feeling she’s a little tipsy. “I won’t ask if you don’t want to tell. I trust Tom’s judgement. And I can get used to that.”

When they tell the family the following evening, the news are met with the excitement he expected. Mary hugs him with a scary, victorious look in her eyes — and God, Tom really doesn’t want to know what that’s all about —, Henry hugs him too, a happy smile on his face. The first thing Robert tells him is that they don’t have to worry about anything, and it’s exactly what Tom expects. He’s learned to see them, underneath all the layers.

It’s in the middle of wedding preparations and of making plans for putting Sybbie in a school near London that Tom breaks the news that he’s leaving. He tries to do it casually over lunch, but it still shocks everyone.

“But… Why?” Mary asks, always incredulous at the idea of anyone wanting to leave the Abbey.

“Because Lucy’s there, because this way I’ll be closer to Sybbie, because me and Henry have been meaning to open a branch in London and right now things are stable enough to make that a reality. Honestly, it would make less sense for me to stay.” He answers easily. “And I could still come back, it’s not like I’ll be stuck in London for the rest of my life!”

It isn’t received as well as he would’ve liked it, and he moans about it to Lucy over the phone once he gets to the store, and then again to Louis when they go out for drinks.

“And I also have you here, which gives me more than enough reason to come, though they don’t know about it,” he adds at the end.

“Well, actually…” Louis starts, and then stops and doesn’t finish.

“What?” He asks, frowning.

“I asked Lucy if she knew of any place to rent in London,” he says. He glances at Tom and shrugs. “Don’t act so surprised. I would’ve done this sooner but… Well, there was you,” he explains, and Tom thinks that that’s the first time he’s ever seen him blush. “But now you’re leaving, so I thought I might go too.”

Tom is at a loss for words on what to say, so he only smiles, and when they go out onto the street as the sun is coming down, he pushes Louis into the darken alleyway nearby and kisses him hard.

They marry in August, in the high of the summer, before Sybbie goes to school. It’s a small ceremony, with the Crawleys, some of Maud’s relatives, and two of his brothers, Kieran and Andrew, who come from Liverpool.

Lucy looks absolutely beautiful, and Tom feels a bit like he’s about to burst out of his skin, even though this is not his first time getting married. They don’t go far on honeymoon, mostly because he wants to spend some time with Sybbie before she leaves, so they spend a week in the countryside — a very eager week, as Lucy put it — and come back to be received in cheers.

At the beginning of September, Tom and Cora take Sybbie to her school in London. He feels bittersweet the whole way, mad that they’re taking his little girl away, proud of how far she’s come. Cora cries a little after she hugs her hard, and Tom’s eyes are a bit red too. They go out for food after, even though it is not yet dinner time, but there’s something sweet about breaking the rules with Cora.

For the rest of the month, he spends his time going between Downton and London, slowly moving his stuff, working on getting the new shop set up and finding someone to be there when he can’t. Henry is with him most of the time, and Mary comes too once or twice, and it’s different, but there’s so much potential in the change.

Then October arrives, and with it their store opens, and Tom goes to London one time and doesn’t go back for a while, and that’s it.

Louis rents a studio a few streets away from Lucy’s flat. It’s the top floor a newish building, and when Tom first steps in there, it is bare, just a large space with nothing in it. However, as Louis slowly fills in, as the blanket makes an appearance at the back of his couch, and the papers start filling the kitchen table, it starts to feel more like his little cottage used to. Tom spends a lot of time there while Lucy’s working and he’s not; it’s quiet, simple. It feels like home.

They fall into a schedule — their very own normal, as Lucy likes to put it — easier than Tom thought possible. Dinner is a flexible thing, where sometimes they have it all together, sometimes it is just two of them. Sleeping arrangements are not set in stone either: sometimes, when Louis comes over to Lucy’s to have dinner, he ends up staying the night; other times, Tom finishes work late and he and Louis go grab a drink before making their way to his studio. There’s freedom in the flexibility of it all, in being able to come and go without worrying about dinner at home or about making up excuses about where he’s been.

He meets Sybbie every Saturday during her free time, and they go out for walks, sometimes with Lucy or Louis — whom he introduces to her eventually —, on some rare occasions with both of them. And he goes to the Abbey often, whenever Mary needs help with something, whenever he starts missing it. He doesn’t want a reprisal of Boston, where he missed them so much he just had to go back, so he doesn’t let the feelings build up. However, if he’s honest to himself, he doesn’t think it will ever become like Boston. Boston never felt like home.

Lucy’s kitchen, Louis’ studio, those places feel like home.


End file.
